Twisted ideas, like twisted steel,
The widowed left to reel.

It does not exist,
The pixelated form,
Flickering overhead,
Electrical storm
Free the beast,
A social norm.

Just a setting on the dryer,
Awaken the cities last crier,
It does not exist
These seeds of hate
Falling purple blue
Hue in- rock, paper, scissors
You’re it gotcha
Eyes nuclear glass.

Like, like, like

She likes.
He likes.

Further on rows and rows, Plato’s cave,
The theatre born. Running around acting
The role
Somebody, please sound
The Ho….
Don’t want you rhymes of compassion,
Murder is all we are ask’in

(The original poem’s visual presentation was lost with Word Press setting. Hope to correct this soon)

Copyright, Christopher Leet 2011

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